


indecision, just an illusion

by FancifulRivers



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aborted Undertale No Mercy Route, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Nonbinary Chara (Undertale), Nonbinary Frisk (Undertale), Nonverbal Communication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Player should get dunked on, Undertale Genocide Route, Undertale No Mercy Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:49:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: “It is possible to be a puppet on a string, controlled by hidden forces.”-Steven Redhead





	indecision, just an illusion

You step forward, sneakers crunching on broken glass. You feel like a broken marionette, puppet strings knotted and useless above you. Something's escaped- let you free- but you don't know why and you don't know how.

Besides, does it matter? You look at your dust-smeared reflection in the knife you still loosely hold in one hand. Same slightly chubby face (though you've traded pale for brown, in this body you're wearing like an ill-fitted suit). Same red eyes, blurred through brown. You smile and it makes your lips crack. The sting makes Frisk stir, but they've long since given up trying to wrest control away from ( _not you_ ) your shaking hands.

Past your wavering vision, the Judge awaits. He's killed you more times than you can count. He's cracked your spine against the ceiling and shattered your ribcage with a well-placed femur. Every time you look down, you expect to see your guts spilling out in pale, red-streaked loops over your shoes.

You shake your head. The room spins. Your head throbs with remembered pain. It reminds you of the time your mother backhanded you into a wall for talking back. Your head had exploded with agony as blood dripped into your eye. Mother called you a disgrace. You couldn't stop laughing. Perhaps that's why you're here now, a creaky, run-down facsimile of a human, worn knife in one hand and cracked and bloodied soul in the other. You don't want to think about your soul. There's something wrong with it. Or maybe it's just that there's something wrong with  _you_.

 _There's nothing wrong with you, Chara,_ Frisk whispers in the back of your mind, but you know that's a lie. If there was nothing wrong, you'd be on the surface already. You'd be eating Mom's butterscotch pie and listening to bedtime stories about snails and trading stupid puns with the emptily grinning skeleton in front of you. If there was nothing wrong, his brother would still be alive.  _Mom_ would still be alive. Your brother would not be a creepy, grinning,  _soulless_ flower who alternates between egging you on and hiding his crybaby face.

It all comes back to  _you_. You're the wrong. The odd one out. You've ruined  _everything_. Your grip tightens on the knife, the blade wavering at your side because fuck dust, what you  _really_ want to see is red, spilled over the scarred pale skin of your wrists-

But you don't have  _yours_ anymore, you have Frisk's, and that harsh reminder reluctantly stills your hand. No matter how much you crave your own self-destruction, every time you look down is a harsh reminder that technically, you already did. Your mom and dad  _mourned_ you. You don't belong here anymore, you're just a revenant, dragged from the broken remains of their grave...

 _Chara, don't be morbid,_ Frisk tells you, more  _present_ than they've been in a long time. You laugh, and the sound is empty. You laugh, and you know that the comedian can hear it, too. You wonder if he thinks it's funny. You doubt it.

 _I'm a ghost, I'm allowed,_ you reply. You shake your head and cobwebs shred and tatter across your thoughts. You don't know if you're supposed to go forward or back. ( _No one's holding the strings._ ) You feel out of control and shockingly in it at the same time.

 _Do you think we're allowed..._ Frisk trails off, not daring to say it. The last time Frisk tried that didn't go so well. They- Sans doesn't forgive and he doesn't forget. You can't blame him. You're the same way. It still hurts to think about sparing him and getting a stomachful of bone for it. You didn't slow down for a long time after that. But now-

Now, you just want to stay here. You want to stand here, dust floating around you like a halo, here where the sun is shining, the birds are singing, and you?

You don't want to have a bad time.

The realisation splinters through you and Frisk both like a lightning bolt and you grimace, dropping the knife with a clatter as your and Frisk's shared hands come up to clutch at your borrowed temples. They  _hurt_ -  _everything hurts_ -

Your knees sag and you crumple to the floor next to the dusty handle of your knife. The sight makes nausea flood your throat like a riptide. You don't know who's in control anymore as your- Frisk's- fingernails sink into Frisk's- your palms, digging in and creating a spark of clarity amidst the tumult of unfocused pain.

 _It's okay,_ Frisk whispers. You don't know if it's supposed to reassure you or themself.  _We'll be okay._ You look down in your lap, not able to respond. Your sweater keeps wavering between green and yellow and pink and blue, like it's some shitty, new-age version of that stupid dress that plagued the Internet when you were still alive.

Frisk slides creakily into the controls and you step back, relieved that you don't have to pilot a body so obviously not your own anymore. At least for the moment. Frisk smiles at you and you can still feel the motion outwardly, their facial muscles twinging.

 _We'll fix it,_ Frisk tells you.

 _How?_ You ask, your inner voice hoarse. They don't answer, instead choosing to pick their way through the judgment hall, toward Sans, leaving your knife on the floor. He stiffens at Frisk's approach, ghost-blue magic burning in his eye socket, but he doesn't immediately crush your larynx, so you suppose that can be counted as a win.

 _I'm so sorry,_ Frisk signs firmly, their hands barely shaking at all.  _I'm going to fix it. We're going to fix it._

"uh, we, kid?" Sans asks, eyeing them like they've sprouted a second head. That would be a neat trick if you could manage it, you muse, stifling an internal snort.

 _It's not my story to tell,_ Frisk says. You appreciate that, because you don't  _really_ want Sans to hear your name and your shitty life plans right after you've finished murdering all his friends and family, but at the same time, you  _really_ don't think the skeleton appreciates mystery right about now. The slowly deepening blue of his eye lends credence to that theory.

"so what are ya gonna do then?" He asks, still uneasy. Uneasy, yet determined. You know if Frisk makes a single wrong move, he'll skewer them like a toothpick.

 _Reset,_ Frisk replies, like it's the simplest thing in the world to rip a timeline free from its moorings and reduce it to so much hypothetical rubbish.

 _You need my help,_ you tell Frisk.  _You don't have enough Determination._

 _Will you help me?_ Frisk asks. You stare at them incredulously.

 _Seriously? Of course I will,_ you say. The dust on Frisk's skin makes you want to rip it off. You don't understand- it feels like the  _you_ of less than an hour ago might as well be an  _eternity_ ago- like you would  _never_ -

Well. You might as well act quickly. You never know when ( _these actions are not your own_ ) something might go wrong.

Frisk doesn't quite dare hug Sans (the memory of the last time is a little too fresh in their head), but they form their fingers in the shape of a heart as they focus, blurring as you help them step into the inkiness of the world only you and they seem able to occupy. You wonder if it's anything like Sans's shortcuts. 

Gold attracts you, a moth to a particularly alluring flame. Salvation lies in one shining word.  _Reset._

Acting as one, Determination beating like a second heart, you and Frisk reach forward and touch it.


End file.
